


death of duty

by Magali_Dragon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anger, Character Death, Dark Daenerys Targaryen, Dark Jon Snow, Dark Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Dark Magic, Darkness, Don't Like Don't Read, Everyone is Dead, F/M, I Don't Even Know, Jon Snow is very angry and just wants to be left alone, Night's King - Freeform, Night's Queen - Freeform, POV Daenerys Targaryen, POV Jon Snow, Revenge, a new version of the night's king and night's queen, did not need a second chapter but oh well, oh well, probably will make some people angry, so much darkness and death and destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:53:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23032780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon
Summary: "The Night's King was only a man by light of day, Old Nan would always say, but the night was his to rule."Jon rules as a king, with his queen, but not in the way the rest of the world imagined.**second chapter added, now complete**
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 50
Kudos: 429





	1. the night's king

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon decides to forge a new identity and take on the mantle of king, but not the one people expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very dark. Like, really dark. I really don't know where it came from other than I was re-reading _Storm of Swords_ and got to the part of the Night's King and suddenly my imagination ran away with me. 
> 
> TW: lots of death, murder, and darkness

_Death always had a very peculiar scent._

He had learned it quite young, the first time he ever saw a person die. It was not at the hands of a blade or on the pull of a noose, but rather a very commonplace way to go. One of the smithy's apprentices caught a pox. He had suffered well enough, poor fellow, and while all had been told to stay away from the poor lad as he writhed in agony while his body shut down, lest they catch it too, he'd actually gone to see. He had arrived just in time to watch the light leave the young one's eyes, the way they just stayed staring blankly at the wall. There was no dignity in it, try as someone might to argue that cause. He had been seven at the time, just a child, curiosity overtaking him, but the incident had not caused him irreparable damage, as all the others thought it might. Or maybe it did. 

Lady Stark had always said he was a vile, dark, and vicious creature. Then again, that was because he was a bastard. Although maybe she knew in that stone she called a heart. _He really was dark and vicious._

One could argue he had seen death even earlier. He had caused it, so to speak, although he hadn't known it at the time of course. Well, not until he was considerably older, when all those long-held lies and secrets came to the surface in a devastating wave of reveals. He had murdered his mother, knowingly or unknowingly, he still didn't know. She'd bled out giving him life, he had been tainted by it the moment he opened his eyes. Could not even get a bit of milk from her before she passed to the darkness. The Queen of Love and Beauty, dead in her bloody birthing bed, her little wolf cub-- or dragon whelp-- cooing happily from his uncle's arms.

Ned Stark had always given him a strange look, but he always thought it was because he was a bastard, a stain on the man's noble iron honor, and yet maybe it was because each time he looked at him, the solemn man only ever saw a killer.

When he was nine, he went with his brother and with Theon to watch an execution. It was time, Father told them, in no uncertain terms, that they see how the Warden of the North dispensed Northern justice. _"The southron lords would have you believe they are the smartest, the most powerful, the richest, but few have ever truly wielded a blade, and even fewer carry out their sentences themselves. That is not how we do it in the North. You will soon learn._ " Robb had been excited, then he'd waited until they got into the thicket of heather before he'd vomited his entire mid-day meal, while even Theon had looked wane. 

On the other hand, he had just watched, as the Night's Watch deserter fell to his knees and his head on a block, and had no further words, other than he was just so tired of the cold and he hoped the gods would give him warmth. Father's greatsword sliced the thick cold air, Ice casting a bright light as a thin ray of sun glinted on it as it fell. It made him think of the sheaves of ice that fell from the eaves to the snow below during spring thaws. It was beautiful. In a terrible way. 

Death was beautiful, in a terrible way, he'd soon discovered. 

He had executed his first man when he was only ten and eight years. He sliced Longclaw through the neck of Janos Slynt, as he begged for mercy and sniveled about being afraid. He should be afraid, he'd thought at the time, for only the Old Gods watched over them in the North and Slynt believed in those silly southron ones like Lady Stark. He wondered if Lady Stark's gods had accepted her when the knife had sliced across her neck. _Terrible way to go,_ even he could sympathize.

So many bloody awful ways to die, he'd learned. He'd seen them. He'd watched a man raise the dead, which made everyone scream in fear. It was not so much the fear of the dead men walking, he'd surmised, but the idea that in death you could be free. You could be wherever your gods took you, perhaps holding hands with long departed loved ones, seeing them and embracing them again. It was comforting to those as they lay in their beds and closed their eyes and slipped off into dreamless slumber for eternity. Until the agonizing terror of returning to the world, not as yourself, but as the slave of another, to do his evil bidding, became known.

The Starks had always buried their dead. In their stone tombs, with their stone wolves to protect them. All the others had done the same. It was a common practice, save for the Ironborn who buried at sea or the Riverlands who sent their dead off down the Trident on a never-ending voyage. He heard the people of the Reach would plant stones with the dead's names and place beautiful flower bouquets. _For what purpose? They are dead, they can't smell them,_ he'd wondered when he heard that peculiar custom.

It was the Targaryens who burned in death. Consigned to the flames, their ashes scattered to the winds their dragons used to stay aloft. Fire and blood, born in one and dead in another. If they were lucky, they died in both. Most thought it barbaric, but he'd learned it was the only way to rest. To lie on a pyre and have your body go up in smoke, because you could not be a slave in this manner. You were in control, even when your soul was gone, wherever it went in death.

It went nowhere. 

He'd learned that when he felt the cold take him. Death was _very_ cold. _I am lying on ice I guess,_ , he'd thought vaguely, the last image in his vision that of a boy he'd taken in— he reminded him of Bran or Rickon—sentiment would always get him in the end, he'd discovered at a far later date. Except this was not an honorable death, as he'd imagined he would go. Like Daeron the Young Dragon, his hero of childhood. He would die in the snow, bleeding out, branded a traitor. They would destroy his body in a manner unbefitting of anyone, let alone a Lord Commander. Then again, he was a bastard after all, he never imagined he'd be buried in an honorable fashion.

Death was black, it was cold, it was empty. It was _nothing._ One moment he was dead, visions of traitors and the faint howl of his wolf the last memories in his mind. He tried to touch it, tried to grasp that tenuous connection he'd discovered from his wolf, to slip on his snowy fur and see through his bloody eyes. Except it was gone, his last thought that he wanted to see his mother, whomever she might be. 

Until he woke, gasping and heaving, his chest burning with the seven stabbing blades that pierced his skin. _For the Watch. For the Watch. For the Watch._ The realization that it was _his men._ They _killed_ him. It had been light and fire that brought him back. _But how? I am not fire or light, I am the darkness, I am nothing, I am a bastard, a traitor, and a bloody fucking fool._

Death always had a peculiar scent.

The Night King had it. The wights all had it. Even the dead dragon, yellow eyes gone black, slipping under the freezing and frozen lake had it. The woman he'd betrayed and thought he had loved had it, dying in his arms, laughing at him even as the darkness took her away too. Even when her body went up in flames. _Kissed by fire_ , he'd thought as he walked away from the pyre.

He always thought he would dispense it honorably. Pass a sentence, ask for last words, and remove someone of their life. The way his father taught him. Or slay them in battle, defending himself, which was of course an acceptable reason for killing someone. Never underhanded, never deceiving. 

And yet he'd done that.

He'd lured her, he'd made her believe, and he'd kissed her. Selfishly, because even though he was no longer a bastard, he was still a selfish and greedy creature of lust and temptation, as Lady Stark had always said he was. He had to have one last taste of her before he ended her life, before he lost her, all because he was a fucking fool, because he'd chosen duty over love. As Master Aemon—his uncle—had told him, love was the death of duty and duty was the death of love. So he could love her one last time. Even if it meant betraying her, even if it meant doing what he was going to do in one of the most dishonorable ways possible.

He was a queenslayer. A kinslayer.

Ygritte told him kinslaying was the worst thing anyone could ever do, for the gods would punish you for the rest of your life for doing such a thing, for spilling your family blood on your hands. He did not realize until he felt that blood on his hands, until he watched it trickle out of her parted red lips and track down her milky pale skin, staining her silver hair spilling on the snow beneath her.

The moment he heard her tiny gasp, watched her eyes glaze in surprise and horror, and then he'd seen something else, something that had his breath catching in his throat and his mind screaming _I take it back!_. She was so sad. Sadness filled her, that girlish glee as she'd practically skipped to him outweighing the cold ruthlessness of her proclamation. He wanted to bring her back. he'd done what was done to him. he'd lured her, like his men had lured him, and he'd made her think something at the end that made her so happy, like he'd been happy at the prospect of his Uncle Benjen's return. Then the light had gone out. The coldness of the snow and stone beneath her likely feeling the same as it had to him. 

It smelled like roses, he'd thought, as he stepped away from her body, as the dragon came down and he expected to die. He was ready for it. He _begged_ for it. He wanted to fling himself off the edge of the throne room into the fiery rubble beneath when the dragon flew off with his mother in his talons. He should have taken that knife from her and stabbed himself int he heart. He should have fallen on Longclaw then and there. 

No, no he did that later.

The North was always fond of stories. Ghost stories, love stories, folk stories, it did not matter at all what the topic happened to be but sitting around a fire or lying in bed as a child as Old Nan told them tales of the past, some real and some just imagination, it was the highlight of most peoples' lives. They would speak of the day when their grans and their mothers and fathers and everyone in the villages would tell them of Bran the Builder, the Age of Heroes, Aegon's Conquest, and all the other stories in between, before and after.

One story they shuddered to tell, but did, was of the Night's King and his Night's Queen. The Nightfort where they dabbled in horrific magic and turned men and women into their pawns, and they sacrificed children to demons and the queen had bewitched this Night's watchman, he had fallen prey to her, and they ruled from the Nightfort until his death. Or hers. Or maybe they still were alive somewhere in between the lands of death and living. Man by day and ruling at night, Old Nan said. 

He was not sure what compelled him when he led the Free Folk through the Wall, to Hardhome and to other settlements scattered over the thawing snows and ice, the Milkwater breaking into rushing streams of icy water, children laughing as they discovered green beneath the piles of white. He could have stayed anywhere, he could have built a home for himself there...he had not taken his vows again, he was free to live. To have a life that he'd always wanted, to maybe find a Free Folk woman, marry her, bed her, and have children. Carry on his bloodline. In a way he had never thought he could before, never want to father bastards, and never wanting to saddle his child with no last name. 

That was not his place. He had no right to it. It was not his responsibility to carry on the Targaryen line. It would die with him. Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, not Aegon IV Targaryen.

He journeyed to the Nightfort. Abandoned, decaying, and dark as the night it was named for. He kicked in the door; he wandered its empty halls. It would become his. He would haunt it like the Night's King had. He was not afraid. They were just stories. Although he of all should know stories were real. Especially in the North. 

Death had a peculiar scent.

It smelled of rotting wood and fear and cold winds blowing through at night. He made his home there. He wanted no part of anything. The banners with the ravens on them, riding up to demand he return to the Night's Watch to live out his sentence for murdering his queen and kin, he was not sure what prompted him, but they did not return to the South. He scattered their bodies to the forest. 

His wolf was his only company. He prowled the corridors in both forms, he watched from the ramparts and the towers, and he ignored the signs of coming Spring. He shunned the day and the sunlight, preferring the dark and cold. _Black was always my color._

Stark banners approached sometimes, so he sent them back with no riders. _Why can't everyone just leave me the fuck alone?_ he wondered, as he sliced the neck of one of his so-called sister's guards, hauling the body over the horse and sending it on its way. 

Only the Free Folk were allowed to treat with him; they did not warrant any animosity. They never betrayed him. They fought with him, they honored him, and they honored her. They did not shun her, for she was an outsider like them. 

Death had a peculiar smell.

He was standing at the top of his tower, hands on an open window and fingers digging into the black stone, gazing out at nothing in particular. Ensuring ravens stayed away. He'd found books in the library, he'd spent his nights reading, he'd even spoken some of the incantations out loud, seeing what they happened to be. They were as real as anything, as real as the Night King and the dead walking. They shrouded his castle, they kept the sight away, but one could never be too sure.

In this case, death smelled of lavender and lemons. And ash. And fire. And painful regret. 

He knelt before her, as she descended the great black and red beast, holding Longclaw in his hands. "Do it," he whispered. He wanted this. He _needed_ this. It would be the only thing that could free him from the gnawing agony of living. He was already walking death. He needed to feel that cold darkness again. He needed his body consigned to the flames. It would be the only way.

_Although I do not deserve such a death._

He should have a traitor's death. He did not care how she did it. Blade or fire. Fire was so pure, so beautiful and quick. He did not deserve that either. 

Her hair was as silver as the moon, skin as pale as snow, and eyes as crystal as gemstones. She wore black, leather and velvets dripping off her like blood, staining the snow with her movements, which were agile and deliberate. Even in death, she was the most beautiful woman in all the world. Her lips, crimson like blood, pulled over her teeth in a smile. She purred, leaning forward and gripping his chin, thumb stroking over his cracked lower lip. "I do not want you to die. I want you to rule with me. Like I did before." Her nails dug into his face, curving red crescents in his skin. " _Forever_."

He nodded. He would do anything for her. "Yes my queen," he breathed. Icy tears trickled down his cheeks to his thick dark beard, before dropping to the snow between them. "Forever."

The Nightfort was theirs, it ruled over their domain, and no one could stop them. They flew to Valyria and back with more learning, they knelt in the fires of the Temple of Rh’ollr, which gave them both life after death, and they traversed the Shadowlands. They were fire made flesh; they were death made life. They were all powerful and all knowing. They were the Night's King and his Night's Queen.

He did not deserve her forgiveness, which she did not give to him, she merely said that when she awoke, she knew he had to die. When she learned what he'd become, she had been impressed. _Proud_ , she had told him. Proud that he had seen what was within him for the first time in his life and he was using it. He was laying claim to what he wanted for once in his life and taking it for his. 

"I just want quiet," he told her, as they lay together in the dewy afterglow of lovemaking, staring at the black stone arches of the ceiling above them, the tatters of the velvet bedcurtains enveloping them like dragon wings. It was his preferred state, lying here with her, expending themselves over and over again—they had the rest of time after all—with and inside of each other.

She hummed, her slim leg sliding over his narrow hips, hoisting herself up and notching herself over him again. She pressed a hand to his damp chest, beginning to ride him, her strong legs clamping down around him as if he were her dragon; he was of course. "We will have quiet," she vowed. She bit on his lip, tasting his blood on her tongue as they both surrendered to the abyss. "Forever."

He slipped into the skin of his wolf, patrolling his lands. The walls of the Nightfort remained, black spikes that drove from the ground into the air, protecting them from the outside. He ran free in these woods, in the Haunted Forest beyond the Wall and the woods beneath. He looked up when he heard screeching. This was his domain, the wolf, the land, the snow. Hers was the dragon, the sky, and the fire. They complimented each other in every possible way.

Light and dark; fire and blood.

Whenever visitors came, either to investigate the sudden resurgence of life in the dead castle or to compel him to return to Winterfell or to the capital, he sent them on their way. Without their heads. Or sometimes in canisters of ash. He kept some of the horses for them; Drogon deserved his rest some days and they liked to go to the waterfalls to spend their time. 

They made a life for themselves. She was his queen and he was her king. This was their castle. Their domain. No one could bother them there. They could stay a thousand years, and no one would ever find them. That's what she had wanted once. It was what he would give her.

Magic was in their blood. From the First Men and the Valyrians. From the Old Gods and the new. He could warg into his direwolf and she could fly a dragon. They tested and they learned. They found they could live forever should they wish. They found they could bring people back if they wished as well. They answered to neither gods nor men. 

He found he could make the trees speak to him. He could see farther than just the skin of his wolf. He could see through the wolves that prowled the Riverlands, could rip out his brother from the minds of ravens in the south, and he could peer in the crying red eyes of the trees at Winterfell, spying on his bitch of a sister. He learned that he could speak to them. He warned them to stay away. All of them. He went to them in dreams, pushed into their minds, his voice hoarse from lack of use. 

"Leave us alone," he warned. "Or suffer." He reminded Sansa of what had happened to her and promised her that she would wish for death again. He found Arya on a ship in Assha'i and had her reliving the horrors she'd witnessed. He went to Bran, through the weirwood that now sat in the godswood of the still destroyed castle, showing him that it was _Jon Snow_ who was the king, was always going to be the king, and not him. 

Tormund stopped visiting; said he could not bear to see him like that. All he'd said was "I was always like this, you just never bothered to look."

Death had a peculiar scent. 

He thought sometimes he died often. Woke in their bed or in his chair before a fire, surprised that he could still breathe. "Is my heart still beating? Does blood still run inside of me?" he wondered, as she curled around him, watching him make sure, cutting his hand with a knife, the blood dripping into a bowl, for use in a particular spell he'd encountered. "Do I still want it to?"

"We will live forever," she declared.

That night they came apart in each other's arms, multiple times, bodies thrusting angrily into each other, sloppy passionate kisses so long they sometimes forgot to breathe. He took her every way he could, his fingers gripping her hips and branding her pale flesh with his mark. Her small hands curled around his neck and choked him as she rode him, his eyes rolling back when he felt his release explode inside of him, seeing nothing but white and wondering if it was a new sort of death. She kissed his scars and he laved hers with love, each one paying attention to the other in the most intimate of ways. They fucked and they made love and they lay together in a manner where they didn’t know where one began and the other ended. He dragged his fingers along her belly, never worried about spilling inside of her, their bodies sealed with sweet stickiness of each other, wondering if in their state a child were even possible, if her curse was broken or his or if they were destined to really be the last of their kind. 

“You are mine,” she murmured, her nails raking across his scalp, coiling his hair around her fist and tugging. 

He nodded. “And you are mine.”

They finally fell into sleep as the sun rose beyond their dark walls, their bond linking them together for the rest of time, and perhaps even longer after that.

They had armies. They could bend people to their will. She was better at that than him. Always had that conquering charisma, while he just resorted to violence when he didn't get his way. Oh the irony, he mused after he'd slaughtered every male member of House Flint when they attempted to take over his castle. She had tried to convince them, speak with them, and maybe she was even doing well at it, but he grew frustrated and Longclaw came out. 

"Oops," he said, kicking over one of the dead bodies. _Shame,_ he had sighed. House Flint weren't the _worst_ of the Northern Houses, but they had decided to follow their chosen queen. To the death. 

She fumed with unreleased anger. "I almost had them!" 

"I was bored."

"You're killing everyone we need on our side!"

He wiped his bloody hands on his black leathers, sighing. "Oh well, maybe some other time." Desire surged inside of him; he was no longer ashamed when he grew hard at seeing her kill; she had taken her dagger—the one he'd placed in her ribs— slitting the neck of one of the Flints after they'd tried to come after her. He approached her, grabbing her by the waist, jerking her towards him and grinding her hips against his. He smirked. "Fancy a fuck?"

"Hmm, always," she growled, ripping at his leather coats and furs and pushing him into the bloody snow. They fucked with abandon, tangles of sweaty limbs and gnashing teeth, battering each other into the ground or the trunk of a nearby tree, until they were spent. They moved into the castle, soaped each other in hot water of the spring that they'd discovered in the depths of the dark structure, and returned to their big bed, this time taking it slow, savoring each other's taste and scent. 

If he died again, he wanted it to be inside of her, he decided, nestled in the grip of her strong thighs, her cunt milking him painfully, velvet walls stroking him from root to tip, sliding over him in lazy thrusts or frenzied pounding. Or with her taste on his tongue, as he lay between those lovely thighs, delighting in the moans and cries he pulled from her with his ministrations. She had the prettiest cunt, he always told her, feathering his fingers along the petal pink lips, circling her swollen bud, and tasting the dew that rushed from her with each release of pleasure. 

“Hmm, pretty?” she mused.

He nodded, humming against it, crooking his fingers inside of her and grinning when any attempt at teasing her choked in her throat, a high-pitched moan slipping from her instead. “So fucking pretty,” he sighed, when she cried out and clenched around him. He coaxed the waves over her, bringing her down gently, and lay with her, her head on his chest, her body limp against him. He murmured his thoughts, twirling her curls in his fingertips. “We could stay a thousand years here.”

“We will.” They had already ensured it. They were different beings. They were _dragons._ Dragons answered to neither gods nor men. They would live forever and they would finally have the peace they had craved for all their earthly lives.

Ultimately, time did pass differently for them.

They did not age, not like everyone around them. He came upon his so-called sister once. She was trying to get to him, to beg him to return to them, that his exile was over, it was nothing now that the Unsullied and the Dothraki had left the shores of Westeros. He thought she was always so young, the little wolf girl who jumped in his arms and was always his favorite. he did not know her any longer, this woman who stared at him with sunken gray eyes and stringy gray hair. _We are the last of the Starks_ , they implored him.

 _I am the last of the Targaryens_ , he corrected.

"They call you the Night's King," she cried, before he ended her life. He felt bad about it, more so than any other death he had experienced, whether at his hand or before his eyes. He warned her to leave them alone. He would have let her life, had she not tried to use him against his queen again. Tears froze to her sallow cheeks. "They say you are wed to a witch, just like the first one. That she has come from the dead and is haunting you. Possessing you. She is making you do these things; she has ruined you! We can help you; I can help you; you are my family."

Before he drove the blade through her ribs, he shook his head. "No, she was my family. You all were nothing in the end. You let me do your dirty work and I suffered for it. No more." 

"Jon."

The only one who ever dared to use that name, she arrived at his side, studying him. "No!" his former sister gasped, pointing and horrified, stumbling backwards. "You...you're supposed to be dead!"

The roar of the dragon, taking off from nearby, beating snow from the pines gathered around the clearing, begged to differ. "I am not dead," his queen informed her, with a lilting smile and sparkling gaze. "Unless you would like to try to rectify that."

"What happened to you?" she sobbed.

He shrugged. "I don't know. I like it though."

It was the dragon that ended her life. He was sad afterward; he had always liked her the most, because she had always treated him decently. Until the end. They all used him in the end. Perhaps it was his turn. To feed his constant need, to encourage his undead heart to pump and his sluggish blood to flow. 

The Queen in the North died when he finally had enough of her attempts to overthrow him. All he wanted was peace and quiet and she kept bothering him, no matter how many dead men he returned to her. Drogon even ventured over Winterfell, reduced its lands to blackened nothing. The bastillas in place on the ramparts did nothing, his hide as hard as the iron spears they tried to pierce him with. _She's the smartest person I know._ Oh Arya, he sighed, you must not have met very smart people. Sansa was quite possibly the stupidest person he had ever encountered.

Of course, he was also pretty stupid himself. _Not anymore._

"They call you the Night's King," she said. 

"So I heard." He examined the cuff of his shirt; it was a fine black silk from Myr, he was learning to enjoy the finer things in life. The silk ruffled when he shook his arms, rolling his head on his neck. He sighed, dropping his chin to his chest and then his neck back, dark curls falling over his shoulders with the stretching. "They call you the Queen in the North." He scowled, arms crossing and the black leather vest pulling at his shoulders. "There is only one Queen."

"And what queen would that be?

"If there is a Night's King, there is also a Night's Queen," he said. 

His queen emerged, unfolding from the dragon sitting behind him. They were two halves of the same. Everyone was so fond of that dumb coin adage; well they were the other half to the same coin. True Targaryens, she was clad in black, her coat and gown slithering at her feet, long bell sleeves dusting the snow. Silver braids coiled around her head in a crown and tumbled down her back, dotted with silver clips and a three-headed dragon nestled in the crown. "Hello Sansa Stark," she said. Her arm looped in his. "I would say it is a pleasure to see you again, but it really is not. I must admit, I cannot wait to kill you."

"You said I get to kill her," he pouted.

His former sister choked, falling to her knees. "No, please!"

"You have had many opportunities to stop your behavior," the Night's Queen tsked. "And yet you persist. All he ever wanted was to be left alone, to be happy, but could you allow that? No, you could not. You poisoned people against him, you ignored his requests, and decades later you insist that it is your wishes that matter more." They both shared a kiss, before one of their _watchmen_ as they called them, took the other queen and sometime later they bound her to a pyre. 

Even as his former sibling sniveled and screamed, he felt nothing. He lit the flames at her feet; dragonfire was too kind for her. He held his queen in his arms, her smaller one resting over his heart. They shared a kiss, when the Queen in the North finally died, and mounted their dragon, returning to their castle, where he showed her for the rest of the night just how much he loved her, and how she was his queen, now and always.

The world changed around them. He brought death to his former brothers—both Night's Watch and Stark—when they finally decided to bother his peace. That was the funny thing no one seemed to understand. They would survive if they just _left him the fuck alone._ Instead they kept trying to bring him back into the world as it suited them. Samwell Tarly tried to come speak to him, to have him become the next king when Bran the Broken finally broke for good. And he could not understand why he would hurt him so, but he honestly did not understand why he had always saved this man-child that cried in front of him. "You betrayed me," he said. He shook his head. "No more. You could have lived, if you just stayed in the south." 

“I killed your father and brother,” she said. She picked at some dirt under her nails, more annoyed that he had to get her out of bed for this particular execution. She smiled wide. “Guess I will be the end of House Tarly too.”

Bran thought it was time, he smiled when the blade came down and took his life. He said that he foresaw it, that there was another Three-Eyed Raven, and that all had happened before, would happen again. "I hate prophecies," his queen spit before she let loose flame from her fingers. It was a new talent; one she'd learned from the priestesses in Volantis. He was so proud of her, always looking for new ways to wield their chosen element.

It had been almost forty years when he saw the Imp again. He came to the gates of the Nightfort—stupid move—with a contingent of men from the south, demanding he stop his campaign of death and destruction. "What death, what destruction?" he asked, honestly curious, sipping wine in his solar. 

“You are both abominations.”

“Says the man whose brother and sister were fucking their entire lives.”

The last Lannister glowered. “I’m not talking about the fact you are fucking your aunt. I’m talking about this.” He punctuated his disdain with a sweeping gesture of his gnarled hand to the solar. 

He was almost offended. The castle was his. It may have had quite a bit of black, but it was the only home he knew. Truly knew and felt was his. He had returned it to its once magnificent form, jutting spires and iron accents on the windows and balconies. It retained heat well, courtesy of his newfound talents with the old Valyrian arts. Lush velvet draperies, paintings done by his queen, and dragonglass furniture filled its halls.

Former Unsullied and Dothraki continued to serve her, of their own accord, and the rest of their armies were men and women who wanted their protection. Their gift of life, as it were. It was a proper castle, in a way, 

He reminded the former Hand of his gifts, waving his hand casually in front of the candle on the table between them, lighting and extinguishing it alternately. The traitor’s eyes widened in surprise, but he kept his mouth closed, for once in his life. The gift of fire was one of the first. The gift of life the second. The gift of seeing, all-knowing, and all-present, another. “What do you mean by _this_?” he asked, cocking his head. 

“You’re mad, using dark magic. The Citadel has been watching. They are…”

“I don’t give a _fuck_ what those cocks in the Citadel think,” he snapped, immediately disinterested in the conversation. He pushed to his feet, snapping his fingers. The fire in the hearth screamed in anger, roaring to life. One of their servants emerged from it. He flicked his fingers to the dwarf, who had nowhere to go, his wit would not save him. “Take him to the dungeons.”

“Jon!”

He whirled, his black cloak spinning around him like smoke. “You do not call me that,” he breathed, warning. He smiled, twisted, eyes steely gray. “I asked you if it was wrong, what I did, and you said ask me again in ten years.” He stroked his beard, musing. “It has been far longer than ten years, but you should have known already. You woke the dragon, Tyrion Lannister.”

The thundering weight of the dragon landing somewhere on the castle’s walls shook the floor, the Lannister stumbling, while he stood still, wondering if there was any other use he could have for Tyrion—he had liked him once. Unfortunately, none of the books required a dwarf for anything, and Lannister blood was as common as a peasant’s. There was no use for him. 

He ascended the stairs to their chambers, where she was lying on the bed on her stomach, ankles crossed and feet waving in the air, humming something while she flicked through a book. “What are you reading?” he asked, kissing her head and idly stroking her arm. 

“Oh I don’t know, I think it is a series of curses, it is hard to tell. Old Valyrian is quite difficult.” She closed the book, dropping it to the floor with a soft thud. She rolled onto her back, her robe falling open to reveal her perfect breasts, and she dropped a fingertip to circle her nipple, teasing him. “Come to bed.”

“We have to deal with the Lannister.”

“He will keep. He destroyed our lives. The least he can do is suffer in the dungeons.”

He agreed, but of course, she was now using both fingers to tease at her tits, and he could not keep her waiting. He held his finger up to warn her to pause, he would be just a moment, and he ventured to his workroom, finding what he was looking for. A few muttered incantations later and Tyrion Lannister would be reliving his worst nightmare, the way he had ensured that _he_ had endured, reliving murdering the love of his life over and over again, until of course she found him again.

“What are you?” the Lannister whispered, before they killed him. It was his fault for trying to come talk to them, they rationalized. He could have died like any normal person, if he had just left them alone.

They exchanged looks, before he took her in his arms, smiling down at her. She looked very pretty that evening, wearing a black gown with shimmering details on the shoulders and wrists like dragon scales, the skirt giving off the faintest glimmer of red depending on how the firelight caught it. She giggled, a high girlish one that was only for him, and he kissed her softly. “My queen,” he murmured, dabbing his fingertip to her nose, playfully. 

She wrinkled that cute little nose, before tapping his. “My king.”

“You both are mad!”

They smiled again; maybe they were. It was only fitting. “Not mad,” she said, Drogon looming behind them. She brushed her lips across his, sighing. “Just Targaryens.” 

Death had a peculiar scent. It was many things and it was nothing. It was something he discovered was his first true experience and the act which he had learned the most about himself. A man is only brave when he is afraid, his father had told him, and when is man most afraid? When in the face of death of course. Except he had found himself there. Wielding Longclaw, killing those that did harm, executing those who betrayed him, and in the end, death had taken him for its own too. It was all he knew. He had risen from death and he had cast it upon the one he loved the most in the world. It was what they did together, to those who did them wrong. It was all they really knew for so long. 

He knew the stories they told, even thousands of years later, as he moved through the crowds of tourists and visitors to the old castle called Winterfell. He chuckled when people asked the guides questions about the Stark family of old, the Long Night, and the Night King. 

“What about the Night’s King?” someone asked. 

He glanced to the guide, his sunglasses shielding his curious gaze, and he folded his arms behind him, fingers wrapping around his wrist, amused when the guide nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, of course, a common misconception. The Night King was a creation of the Children of the Forest, a story of course, they created him to fight the First Men, but he of course turned against them. He could raise the dead, he sought to bring about the Long Night, neverending winter and cold and death.” The guide was quite right of course, even if she thought it all fantasy. The guide reached into her bag and removed glossy artful images, of a man with dark curly hair dressed in black and his silver queen with violet eyes, embraced in his arms. “This is a rendition of the Night’s King. There were two. One during the Age of Heroes, but the one you might most be familiar with is a former Night’s Watchman. He murdered his beloved, his kin, and his queen, and lived in regret for the rest of his life. He took the Nightfort as his, when he was exiled to Beyond the Wall, but you see, his queen came _back_ to him. Brought back to life, she flew on her great dragon to join him, and together they ruled. Legend says that they dabbled in dark magic, they sought revenge for those who wronged them, and they lived forever, ruling over the night as king and queen.”

The guide shoved her pictures back into her bag, laughing and waving her had dismissively. “But of course, that is just a story, some even say that the Night’s King was the former King in the North. Many legends speak of him and many legends speak of her, the Dragon Queen, the Silver Queen, she holds many titles.”

A young girl jumped from one foot to the other, asking about whether dragons still existed, the guide unfortunately dashing her hopes. He frowned; not liking that, he waited for the guide to move the tour along before he approached the child, kneeling and tapping her shoulder. She turned, smiling politely. He reached into his pocket and removed a smooth ivory tooth. “Dragon tooth,” he said with a grin. Her eyes lit up. “Don’t tell anyone where you got it.”

“Oh wow,” she gaped.

He stood, ruffling her pale blonde curls, and watched her scamper off to rejoin the tour with her family. He sighed, hands in the pockets of his black jeans, and he strolled around for a bit longer, flicked through overpriced illustrated books of the Long Night and the Starks and finally stopped on one book depicting the story of the Dragon Queen and the King in the North. He turned to the end, the illustration of two dark figures set against a cliff, gazing out upon a waterfall and studied the end. 

_The story of the Dragon Queen and the King in the North has many different endings, but this author chooses to believe they found each other at some point in their afterlife, and are ruling over their lands together, each other’s king and queen, for now and for always._

_That was beautiful_ , he thought, setting the book down. He left the castle, meandering into the Wolfswood, waiting until he was alone before he snapped his fingers, disappearing in a spiral whorl of black smoke, only to reappear before his castle, the iron gates creaking open when he approached. 

He entered, jogging up the stairs and to their chambers, where he found his beloved sleeping among the crimson sheets and pillows. He sat on the edge of the bed, stroking his finger over the curve of her jaw, lightly brushing her silver curls aside. “I’m home,” he murmured. 

She moaned softly, stretching and swiveling her hips around so she could turn up to face him, lips pulling over her even teeth and heavy eyelids lifting, peering at him through thick lashes. “You’re back,” she sighed.

He snapped his fingers, a blue rose appearing between them, lighting draping it down her slim neck and over the bump of her collarbone. “I am back.”

“How was the festival?”

“Oh you know, same old story.” 

“Evil Dragon Queen?”

“And the dark Night’s King,” he replied, leaning to kiss her. He stretched beside her, fingers dragging over the slash beneath her left breast. He closed his eyes against the reminder, the pain no less painful thousands of years later. He nuzzled into her neck, inhaling her scent, lavender, lemons, smoke, and fire. And death. 

They wrapped up in each other, tangled together, falling into their endless sleep. Until they woke with the night, and ventured out, to rule over their domain, finally and forever at peace.

**fin.**


	2. the night's queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a few thousand years as the Night's Queen, Dany still does not have what she desperately craves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This did not need another chapter, but I wrote one anyway, all modern setting with Dany's POV.
> 
> Thanks for the comments on the first one-- really glad people seemed to dig the dark!Jonerys rather than be put off by it, lol.

Put that back Jonny, there's no such thing as dragons."

Oh, that was not very nice, she thought, plump lower lip sticking out and her smooth forehead wrinkling into a frown. _Children should never have their dreams crushed._ She waited for the little boy to go looking in a bin with more dragon toys before she approached, smiling down at him, her violet eyes shimmering. He instantly lifted his head, tiny mouth falling open in wondrous awe. _They always looked at her like that, no matter their age, men were predictable._ Or it could have been the glamour she had perfected over the last thousand years. She picked up a stuffed dragon, back and red like her son, passing it to him. "Do not let them convince you otherwise," she told the child. She screwed up her nose, grinning. "Dragons are real. When the storms roll in and you hear the thunder, do not be frightened, for it is simply the dragon in the North." She cocked her head, the scattered silver bells in her braids tinkling over her shoulders. Her voice mirrored the bells, capturing the attention of anyone who listened in. "And he loves children very much. He protects them, you see. Next time it rains and storms, lift your hand to the sky and say 'Hello Drogon' and I promise you, he will say hello too."

The child only gaped, taking the stuffed toy numbly from her. "Thanks," he barely whispered.

She cocked her head again. "Your name is Jonny?"

He nodded. "Yes, after the stories."

"Oh, that's lovely!" All shining teeth, eyes, and luminous skin, she snapped her fingers, the stuffed dragon in his hands ruffling slightly and he glanced down, staring at the little nameplate that appeared on the collar around the dragon's neck—although dragons are not slaves— spelling out 'Jon.' 

"It's my name!"

"It's magic, you see. Jon is a good name, a strong name, just like the Night's King."

The child shook his head. "No, the King in the North."

Her smile twisted, lips peeling blood red over her teeth. "Yes, the King in the North, but you do know the rest of the story? He became the Night's King. He rules over the night, if you displease him, he will find you. But you see, he loves children, just like the dragons do. So tonight, when you look out at the moon, thank him for watching over you." She winked. "And the Night's Queen too."

The little boy laughed, nodding, too dumbstruck to say anything else. She tweaked his nose. _Such a sweet little thing._ He spun on his heel, turning away and trotting to his parents, who were at the register. "Mum! Dragons _are_ real! The queen said so! And I'm named after the king!"

The parents seemed confused, asking him who was speaking to him, and he moved to point to her, but there was no one there, to the parents' confusion, although the little boy frowned, watching her leave. 

She tapped the side of her nose with her fingertip, turning her head and slinking through the Northern store, no longer the bewitching woman with silver hair and violet eyes—perhaps someone cosplaying as the Dragon Queen or even the Night's Queen?—nay, no one saw her when they blinked again, must have bene the trick of the light. It was just a woman with blonde hair and blue eyes, leaving the store and walking down the cobblestone sidewalk, speeding up to a light jog when she spotted the man casually smoking a cigarette as he leaned against one of the many stone monuments to times long gone.

People stopped to ask the man about his _dog_ , a giant white beast with unblinking red eyes, who sat as still as the statue of the wolf his master leaned against. People commented how he should have a leash, for an animal that large. The man simply stared at them, iron eyes locking to theirs, and suddenly they had other things to worry about and no longer found it important to criticize a stranger. 

She took a moment to admire him. Thousands of years later, he was still dashing, if anything, he had become more handsome than the first day she'd met him, for he no longer carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. No longer confined to heavy furs, hiding beneath their weight and responsibility, he was carefree—happy—finally able to live the life he'd dreamed of having, a life he was never supposed to have, courtesy of those who saw to hide him from it, to take it from him, and mold him into something different. 

The new fashions were the best in all the times they'd been together, even though she did still fancy wearing some of the short-hemmed and beaded gowns of the 20s, those were so _fun_. Whenever she did leave in her old velvet and leathers, her high-collared coats and her bell sleeves, people thought perhaps she were in a play or filming a movie, or else she was just a fan of vintage clothing. She did still love her old coats. She loved that he no longer wore the older styles, almost always in a tailored black suit, perfectly knotted tie at his neck, or else his favored black jeans and t-shirt, with a beat-up black leather jacket she had found for him almost eighty years before. 

Dark curls escaped around his temples from the bun he'd tugged most of them into, his hand reaching up to take the cigarette between his fingers, a stream of smoke furling from his pursed lips. He crossed and then uncrossed his ankles, his worn black leather boots scuffing in the gravel. She glanced to see someone stop to try to tell him something, but another look and the person was on their way. she noted that it was probably in relation to the 'No Smoking' sign that was hanging next to him. 

She shook her head; rules did not apply to them. They never had and they never would. She caught his attention, the sullen steel gaze lighting at the sight of her. He flicked the cigarette into a bin nearby, and she giggled, skipping to him, arms flying up. "Hello, my love!" she chirped, bounding up and leaping into his arms, capturing his lips in a steamy open-mouth kiss. 

He spun her around, chuckling when she flicked her fingers towards an old bat who was giving them side-eye at their passionate embrace. The crone gasped, suddenly unable to see, turning and walking off away from the. "Now, now," he mumbled into her mouth, setting her feet back to the ground. "No murder in the daylight hours."

She pouted. "It's almost nighttime. And it wasn't murder, I just gave her something else to see."

He slipped his hand into the back pocket of her jeans, his arm around her waist, walking off from the square in the center of Winter Town, Ghost trotting beside them. He nuzzled her temple. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," she murmured, kissing him again. "So? How was Valyria?"

"Productive."

They meandered towards the Wolfswood, ignoring the requests from a group of volunteers asking them to sign petitions for Northern Independence. She wrinkled her nose distastefully. "They will never learn. It didn't work the first thousand years."

"We will make sure it does not."

It was one of their pet projects, ensuring the pesky Northerners who desired independence over the last millennia never bothered to get farther than just petitioning. A few times—for fun— they allowed it to get to all-out war, before swooping in and decimating the rebelling forces. it seemed there was always a redheaded female who proclaimed herself 'queen' of the cause. It gave her great pleasure to kill this version of Sansa Stark over and over again. 

She stopped outside of a bookstore, clapping her hands and jumping. "Oh! A reading!"

"Dany, really?"

"You go home, I want to hear." She stepped into the shop, going to join the crowd that had gathered to hear a folktale scholar read from their latest edition of Northern folktales. The current story was about the Night's Queen. 

It always started with the first one, who they believed may have been a female White Walker. The only one, in fact. Until there was another. "More beautiful and terrible than the one before," the scholar read. He turned a page, lifting the book to show a gorgeous illustration of the queen, standing beside her black dragon, streaming moonglow hair and crystal eyes, removing a sword with a wolf pommel from the hands of a kneeling king, dark curls hiding his face and heavy black furs pressing him to the snow at her feet. "The former King in the North, the one who saved the realm with the murder of the Mad Queen, went mad himself. Some say he disappeared beyond the Wall, he died in exile never to be heard from again, but most of the tales say he ventured t the Nightfort, to live out his days in agony, calling for his queen, his kin, and his beloved. She returned from the dead, she sought him out, after learning of his exile and his devotion to her and his regret. She forgave him, believed his remorse, and they joined forces, their blood more powerful together than apart."

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She reached to wipe at them. A woman beside her smiled, offering her a tissue. "It is a beautiful story, always gets me," the woman whispered. 

"Yes," she murmured. She did not like how they told the rest of it though. How they demonized them. Said they turned to the dark arts, they haunted the rest of the world, they bent people to their will with evil intention, and to that day they remained in the mysterious Nightfort, which no one could find, no matter how hard they patrolled along the remains of the Wall. 

In the event someone got close enough, they'd only see a moldering ruin, with warnings to stay away. If they were stupid enough to come closer, wolves would appear and snap and drive them off. Should they have a death wish and evade the wolves, they would, well-- _die_. So many had gone casually missing near where the Nightfort was rumored to be, the Night's King and Night's Queen preferred their peace and quiet, and the stories continued, warning off anyone from searching for them. 

It was the stories used to scare the children she did not care for; they _never_ harmed children. If anything, some of the folktales the old grannies told spoke of how lost children in the North found their families again when they encountered the Night's King and Queen. They could have no children of their own, you see, for they were both essentially _dead._ They longed for a child but would never hurt a parent and steal a child. However, should you hurt your children, you might get a visit from them, if they happened to witness it.

Tales of warning, she preferred. Tales of horror and abuse and monstrosity, well that would not do. She listened a bit longer, this particular scholar focusing on the warning of the King and Queen. A young woman raised her hand, calling out a question. "What do you say to the conflicting literature suggesting that the Night's King and Night's Queen are simply local representations of what befalls you should you perform one of the most egregious of acts—kinslaying? Condemned to wander for eternity as neither a man nor a ghost, with the woman he murdered, yes, but they live half-lives. Both are together, but punished for their crimes?"

"Is it punishment?" she called out, before the scholar could answer. She arched a silver brow, her arms crossing over her chest. Everyone looked at her, in awe, as they always were at the sight of her. "They chose their lives. I do not believe they would view it as punishment. They chose to find ways to live forever, they are just doing what they always wanted to do. Stay a thousand years and live in peace. It is the rest of the world that seems determined to undo that."

The woman argued. "Yes, but the story also begs the question of why would she go back to him? She should have killed him, he was willing. I don't think it is the Dragon Queen that they speak of who is the Night's Queen, but someone else. Perhaps just a figment of his imagination, created in his grief. Or a story that people told because they can't bear the alternative that he was just a kinslayer and queenslayer who died alone and miserable."

_Oh he will not like that._

As if on cue, the weather shifted, the ground rumbling as thunder rolled through. She ignored the delight in the depths of her heart when she heard the angry clouds above. She tapped her fingertip to her nose again, murmuring. "Perhaps she returned to him _because_ he was miserable. He showed her his remorse. He was willing to drive his sword into his heart."

The scholar perked up. "I am not familiar with that telling."

She smiled. "Oh yes, you see he offered himself to her. Requested that she take his Valyrian steel sword Longclaw and pierce his heart. Take his life as he took hers, so he could rest forever. Instead, she forgave him, and she took him as her king, and they ruled forever, the way it should have been." She scowled, snarling. "Before everyone else decided they knew what was best."

A slight tug on her elbow drew her back. The minds of the crowd clouded slightly, the curiosity of the scholar turning to a wondering and reminder to check his notes because he was not sure why he had the idea to look into whether the Night's Queen had almost murdered the Night's King at his request. She scowled, stalking out of the bookstore, boot heels clicking. "What? I was just fixing history!"

"Hmm, you were beginning to draw attention."

"Oh, says the one who started the storm."

The rain began to fall in droves, sending everyone inside. The thunder shook the skies and the lightning split the clouds, blinding anyone who dared look close enough to see where the storm had come from, it was not forecasted. He kissed her temple. "I love when you defend me."

"You're weak."

He bit hard enough on her earlobe that she felt the skin break, an arrow of need shoot straight down her spine through her belly to her cunt, her thighs squeezing to stem the urge to take him against the nearest tree. He laved at the mark with his tongue, voice raspy. "Say that again about me being weak?"

"Hmm," she chuckled, sliding against him and walking backwards, a hand stroking his jaw while she waved her other behind her, creating a cloud of reddish smoke, which they walked into, and emerged in front of the castle. 

Ghost trotted ahead of them between the opening iron gates, one with the wolf swinging to the side and the other with the dragon moving the opposite direction. As they closed behind them, the two sigil creatures met, forming a 'T' as the gates clanged shut. The wolf ventured to find something to eat, thick white tail swishing as he turned a corner inside the main foyer. She paused, staring up at the painting she had done and hung up on the side wall, next to the main staircase that led to the upper levels. It was from several hundred years ago, of her king, casually sitting in his chair, his arm draped on the armrest, the pommel of his sword peeking out from near his arm. Bored expression on his pouty lips, his dark beard trimmed, and eyes staring gray and all-knowing. He was _beautiful_ , her king, and her favorite subject for paintings. 

He'd left her, gone somewhere in the castle. She bounced through the rooms, greeting servants, who moved about as needed. In the dining room she inspected the paintings that hung along the walls, many returned from the storage rooms of King's Landing-- those that were not destroyed by the Usurpers. She puttered in the sitting room, opening curtains and deciding she wanted to change them out, she would have someone send for new ones immediately. In her chambers she slipped from her black sparkly skirt, combat boots, and red sweater, into something more comfortable for home. 

It was her favorite Myrish robe, black silk with swirling red lace panels and thread of silver, detailing dragons on the hem and a wolf over her heart, where he always rested. She buttoned it up, walking barefoot along the stone corridors, stopping in the solar to get a glass of wine and making her way to the King's Tower. She stepped into the main room, overflowing with tomes and rolls of parchment. Tables scattered with herbs and equipment. She wandered to where he was sitting, glasses perched on his nose and his finger tapping on his upper lip, scanning through the _computer_. "I hate that thing," she said, scowling at the sleek silver laptop.

"It is necessary."

"It's wrong."

He closed the screen, dropping his glasses onto it and turning in his chair, arms looping around her waist, peering up at her with an amused smile. "And what is right, my queen?"

"You." She kissed him, moaning into his mouth when he groped at her ass, pulling her into his lap. She canted her hips against his, encouraging him to lift her. He carried her from the workroom, laying her out on their massive four-poster bed, pulling at her clothing, kissing and loving every inch of her. She tugged his hair in her fingers, smiling in pure pleasure. They were alive, even though they were dead too. She could hear his beating heart, the pulse of it in equal pace with hers. 

If she died again, she would prefer it to be in his arms, whether they were lying before the fire savoring each other’s touch and love or writhing in twisted agony at the overwhelming intensity of the pleasurable pain they could inflict on each other. She sobbed out, her legs thrown over his shoulders, as he feasted between her thighs, not stopping even when she begged—he knew she was lying, because if he stopped she would kill him, because it felt so good, even if the sensations were almost too much, his tongue slipping and sliding, knowing exactly what she wanted and where.

“Jon,” she cried, repeating his name, praying it and chanting, her hand pressing his head harder into her cunt while her other tore at her hair, hips swiveling as she fucked his mouth. “Please.”

He laughed against her. “Please what?”

“More.” And he listened, because he loved her, and she loved him, and this was how they could show it to each other when sometimes words were just too much for their tired hearts.

The night fell, casting shadows over them. It was their time, when they were at their most alert, for over all this time together it was the only time they knew when they could be at peace. He went to his tower to work, while she meandered through the maze of tunnels, corridors, and towers. All that had happened before, would all happen again. No matter the time, it seemed they were always fighting for their peace. Whether it was the Starks or the Lannisters, it seemed each millennium there was someone who thought it their purpose to find them, to destroy the last Targaryens.

She missed Dragonstone, but it was not her home any longer. It had not been, even when she was there for the first time. Her home was where Jon was, and he was here. She emerged into the octagon kitchen, with its high ceiling and the weirwood tree that sprouted through the center and exploded out in a fountain of blood-red leaves over the glass above, blocking all but the moonlight that danced in silver rays over the white trunk, its bloody eyes and mouth laughing at her. 

She turned from the weirwood, knowing it was more _his_ place than hers. "We were fashioned by the gods for love," he told her, many, many years ago, as they sliced their palms and pledged to each other before the weirwood tree. "And they made me what I am, so they will watch over you too, because you are part of me."

It was his belief, so she supported him, but it was just a tree to her. She ventured into the dungeons, wandered by the cells, pausing where they had kept her former Hand for many years before they finally ended his worthless life. She kind of missed him. She missed torturing him. the way he had tortured her. She ascended the stairs, slipped here and there, finding herself in one of the yards. The Nightfort was one of the largest castles along the Wall, it was the most magical. Most of the buildings had little use anymore, storage and the like. She had an apothecary of sorts in one, Ghost had the old forge to his own when he wanted to sleep outside, and then there were the ice carved steps leading in a hypnotizing zig-zag pattern up the 600-foot ice wall that still stood.

The ice crunched under her feet as she descended into one of the massive crevices near the ice stairs, smiling at the sudden warmth that washed over her. She spoke in Valyrian, cooing to her sweet child. He was so old, a curmudgeon, ornery and tired, spending most of his time sleeping, eating his favorite treat of stags and goats, and occasionally taking to the skies. He rumbled, fire warming in the back of his throat, golden eyes blinking in the light from outside as she approached him. He had grown to what she believed Balerion must have measured, able to blacken the moon or sun. 

He preferred the night, like them, and she stroked his maw, eyes closing and nose nuzzling his iron scales, arms stretching to stroke him idly. "My sweet boy," she sighed. She smiled at the tug in her mind. "Would you like to fly tonight? Yes? Alright." She had dressed in her riding outfit; hopeful he would be in the mood. She climbed atop him, tugging the spines along his back. He lumbered from his nest, into the wide yard, and screeched, taking off straight to the sky. 

The cold blew her hair from her face, washing over her in a refreshing bath of fresh air. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, holding onto her dragon as he flew along the length of the Wall, before spiraling around and up, higher and higher, until the rest of the world was but a miniature child's toy beneath them as he flew west. They soared over the remains of the other Night's Watch castles. Only Castle Black still stood, the rest were long-gone. They were cities now, people lived in towns named for them, no idea of the history that rested under their feet. 

She flew over Queenscrown, named for her ancestor, and along to Eastwatch, remembering the first time she came this far. The first time she thought she'd lost the stupid arse, on that suicide mission, where she'd lost her sweetest child. "My poor Viserion," she murmured. His bones were burned, in a private ceremony, after they burned the bodies of everyone else who perished in the battles. She cried, for she had lost everyone so dear to her, but sweet Missandei and Grey Worm were there, comforting her. _But not the one I wanted most._

They flew south, along the coast, to White Harbor, a major industrial port these days. Further still, the Vale and the Fingers. Skiing destinations and holiday homes for the wealthiest of Westerosi. They flew farther still, to the Crownlands, where she once thought she would rule. They hovered over Kingsland, the name of the capitol, and at the ruins of Maegor's Holdfast, now a major tourist attraction, a destination for all Westerosi schoolchildren. She sighed, shaking her head, patting Drogon's neck. He did not like being here. Did not like being where he lost her the first time or where his brother and her other child perished.

As the studies and the magic of Old Valyria and the Lord of Light and the Shadowlands and all the people before them kept her alive to this day, it gave them other powers too. She had used them to raise her child from his watery grave, to treat his bones with respect, to consign him to the flames, as he should have been in death. Her king had kept one of her child's bones, one of his claws and one of his teeth, for his memories, and she knew he had switched out the old wolf pommel for a new one, a wolf carved from the dragonbone. 

She could go to Dragonstone, but she thought it best they return. There was nothing there for her now. It was a ruin, abandoned, no one was allowed there. She had made sure of it, if she ever wanted to visit it. No one could approach, lest they suffer similar fates as when they attempted to get to the Nightfort. She turned her son back North, flying this time over the Stormlands, the Riverlands, and farther still.

Night was her domain, it was his too, and she could sense him searching for her, his gaze ever present. She looked below, scowling at the lights, the roads, and the modern world beneath them. It was necessary, it was progress, and she was grateful for it. Yet it was ugly and dark. She kept them cloaked, lest anyone see them, but sometimes she wanted them to see them. wanted to remind the people that there really was a king and queen, there really was a dragon, and to keep that in mind when they thought they should oppress and take and enslave.

They soared over her domain, circling around what remained of Winterfell, and took back off over the Wolfswood. It wasn't until they neared Castle Black did, she turn Drogon towards the Nightfort. They landed atop the Wall, the ice groaning under protest at the weight of the dragon. She descended, walking over to where he sat, smoking, Ghost lying at his feet. The tiny rays of sunlight were beginning to rise over the Haunted Forest. She sank next to him, taking the cigarette and pulling briefly on it before handing it back. She coughed, blinking hard and scowling at his amused look. "Jon! That is not tobacco!"

"Nope," he said, pulling on the joint. He blew out a stream of smoke to the side, lifting his eyebrows and holding it between his fingertips, offering it to her again. She took it, now that she knew what it was, and was more prepared for the burn she felt, inhaling and holding before releasing the smoke, eyes closing. She kept them closed, when he asked, soft. "Where did you go?"

"Around."

He brushed his lips to her hairline, whispering. "Things are so different now...without everyone else."

"Is that good or bad?"

"It's good. Very good." She opened her eyes, peering up at him, at the relief on his face, his eyes closed, relaxed. _Happy._ He sighed. "Call this our, what do they say? _Retirement_?"

"Give or take a few thousand years."

"You ever regret anything we've done?"

"No," she snorted. Everyone deserved what they got. Anyone who bothered them deserved what they got. They just wanted peace. Killing a few people who annoyed them was nothing. She did have one regret. Well, not a regret, more so just... _pain._ He knew it, he could sense it in her. For all the spells, all the incantations, the curses, and the blood magic, there was one thing nothing they did could ever give them. She had tried. She had searched the ends of the earth, she had almost lost her eternal life, so many times, in search. All the mages, the shadowbinders, the witches, the priestesses, they told her it was not possible and still she did not believe.

His hand covered her empty womb, warming through her coat and the shift she wore beneath. They rarely spoke of it, for it was simply a fact of their lives. Yet every single time, every single evening, when they lost themselves in each other, she thought perhaps, maybe, just once. Just once his seed would take root and her belly would swell. She would feel life inside of her, would be able to one day hold a creation that was half her and half him. They would not be the last of their kind. Except they were. 

Maybe it was their punishment, for all their misdeeds. For destroying King's Landing in her case or murdering his family in his. Those things had to occur though. They had to happen. "Do you think we should have listened to everyone else?" she wondered, unsure exactly who she was speaking of. _His family? Her advisers? Who knew anymore?_ "What of all the others who think they knew what is right?"

He snorted, blowing out smoke after another pull on the joint. "They don't get to choose."

 _That's what I said to you._

She rested her cool cheek atop the exposed skin from his half-unbuttoned shirt, feeling it warm her through to her toes, which curled in her boots. Her fingers wrapped in the silk, tugging on it, and her leg slipped over his narrow hips, her body rocking to him. "Love me," she begged, plucking the joint from his fingers and tossing it aside, her hands pulling at the buckles of her coat. She was desperate, as she often was when she dared to think of what she did not have. “Please Jon, love me.”

And he did, he loved her most ardently and thoroughly, he allowed her to use him for her pleasure, to give it in return, her mouth hot around his cock as she gave back to him the attention, he had given her. She rolled her eyes up to stare at him, the way he was watching her, through thick lashed eyes, heavy-lidded, his head tilting back as she smiled around his length, taking him deeper, her fingers tracking up his stomach to grip at one of the scars over his heart. _Mine_ , she thought. _If I cannot have anything else in the world, at least I can have him._

He lifted her into his arms when they finished atop the Wall, dropping off the edge into a cloud of smoke before arriving with light feet in the depths of the castle, in the massive caverns of hot springs, which they had modernized with a dragonglass sunken pool. She dove into the end, allowing the hot water to sluice over her fatigued body, replenishing her, and she pulled him in after her shortly thereafter, trying to forget what had prompted her desperation in the first place.

The following day she stayed in bed. Sometimes that happened, there was nothing she could do to stop it. There was no cure, no spell that she could cast, no power she could wield, to stop her aching heart. To stop the flood of pain and tears that kept her from getting up, her limbs heavy and her mind cloudy, unable to process and function. He doted on her in these dark times, lay with her for as long as she needed, rained kisses over her face and ran his hand over her back, soothing her during particularly awful bouts of sobbing, where her entire body wracked itself, eating from within.

There was no one left on this earth who could pay for what they had done to her, but she wanted to find others. Anyone who upset her, who dared look at her incorrectly, she would lash out, swiping her fingers into the air and taking them down to their knees as they struggled to breathe, or wielding her dagger and slicing their necks, blood spilling on her hands and at her feet. She tried to keep her hatred on those who harmed others, but other times she just _couldn’t stop._ They told stories of them for a reason. Of people disappearing into the woods and never returning, because the Night’s King and Queen had taken them for their own. 

She lay in bed for a few days and nights, unable to lift her arms, her feet blocks of lead beneath the pile of sheets and duvet and mountain of pillows. “Dany,” he whispered, kissing behind her ear, stretched beside her, his fingers rubbing gently in small circles on the small of her back. “Love, what do you need?”

It was something he already knew, which she suspected he hoped was not the case. Perhaps he could get her tea, more blankets, or bring her the old magick books that she liked to peruse when she got so despondent. Except it was nothing like that, he knew. Just as she did. She blinked bloody tears from her eyes, shoving her face into his neck. “A baby,” she sobbed.

He wrapped her tight against him as she cried, feeling sorry for herself, wanting to destroy everyone all over again. All the ones who hurt them both. He left her and she closed her eyes, seeing through his, sharing his grief and pain as he swept from the castle, raging and screaming as he burned and ruined and brought death to the North again. She buried herself under the pillows, inhaling his scent—pine, smoke, leather, and death. Her eyes fluttered closed, she slept for hours on end, or what amounted to sleep in her life. She rarely ate—she never really needed food in this half-state of being.

Sometimes she wrapped herself in the duvet and sat on the ramparts, staring at the Wall, the snow, the pines, and allowed her creatures to comfort her. Her son nuzzled her and bathed her in smoke, warming fires around her when she needed to feel the licking of flame on her skin. The constant presence of the massive wolf in her bed made her feel as though her king were there with her too, while he moved about the world. 

She cuddled Ghost, his head atop her breast, his eyes locked on hers. She stroked his head, ruffling his ears and he blinked sleepily. “You are so loyal, so true, my sweet wolf,” she murmured, her fingers curling tight in his fur. She sniffed. “I would never have been able to last this long in this being without you. I knew when I awoke, on that slab of stone in Volantis, my life meant nothing…I was without child, without love, and without my sons. I had lost everything and everyone. You turned on me. You hurt me. I vowed to destroy everyone, I wanted to ruin them like they ruined me. They turned me into a monster and wondered when I lay destruction on the world. A dragon is not a slave, yet they wanted to enslave me. And then I heard tales, of the exiled Queenslayer, who rebuked his sentence, who took a castle as his, who dared to fight back against those who wanted to use him again. I watched you, I waited, until I knew for certain, and yes, the man who murdered me was not the one I fell in love with, for he had been twisted and used and abused as well. The man who offered his sword, who wished for me to end his life as payment for his misdeed, he was the one who I fell in love with.” 

She blinked tears away, until she could no longer, sobbing into the wolf’s neck, his muzzle resting near her ear. “My love, we can live forever, we can rule the night as king and queen, as we should have long ago, but what is this life now?” 

He rubbed his neck against hers, licking at her tears, and she fell asleep against the low thud of the wolf’s heart, his paw on her belly. She held it tight, until the man who saw through the wolf’s eyes would return to her and she could hold his hand in her sleep instead. 

When he returned, he seemed different. He arrived in a cloud of black smoke, striding purposefully towards her down the path, waving his hand quickly to break the seal on the gates, sending them swinging. She sat up slightly in the bed, watching the candles around the room sputter and hiss, shooting flames almost to the ceiling, the fires about the castle screaming. The dragon in his nest roared and the Wall creaked with ice that came off in a sheave from the side. She climbed from the bed, Ghost leaping down and loping out the door to greet him. 

She peered out the window, watching him move, graceful like his wolf. He was not in his modern attire, but wearing his black traveling cloak, waving his hands to warn off servants who tried to step to him, before shrinking into the shadows. “Jon?” she murmured, pushing from the window, returning to the bed and slinking under the sheets. 

He blew into the room, the normal paleness of his cheekbones above his beard flushed pink from travel, his gray eyes bright, downright giddy. An emotion she almost never would associate with him. “My queen!” he exclaimed, throwing off the cloak. He laughed, lifting her from the bed, spinning her around. She yelped, arms tight around his neck, feet kicking up as he spun her. He set her down, his lips crashing to hers, and she moaned, hands on his face, locking him to her, grateful for his body against hers after so long. 

When they separated, lips puffed and bruised from the intensity of their kissing, he cupped her face in his hands, skin of his palms rough on her soft cheeks. She lifted her fingers to grip his wrists, staring up at him, wondering why he was so… _thrilled._ “I take it your travels were productive?” she asked. Even though she had no real idea where he had gone, he’d shielded that from her sight. It was not the first time he’d done it, he often did not want her to worry about him, when he went venturing into the Shadowlands, particularly when he traveled to Stygai.

He stroked her face, nodding and smiling, forehead pressing to hers, breath rattling from his throat. “I went to Volantis, I spoke to Kinvara…” he kissed her again, too excited to continue, before he broke again and sobbed, nodding his head fast. “And then to the Shadowlands and…I believe I found it.”

She had no idea of what he spoke, he seemed incoherent. _Mad, he is a Targaryen, so of course he is mad._ They moved from the bedroom and to the stairs, because he could not stand still, rushing to his tower. He marched to the glass case above the hearth, where Longclaw rested in crushed velvet, a piece of art rather than a tool of war and death as it had been for many years. He lifted the case effortlessly, resting it on one of the tables and unlocked it, reaching for the shining Valyrian steel. She moved towards him, watching him set it on the table and then rummage in things. 

He began to throw stuff into one of the bowls. “Love?” she murmured. She folded her arms over her chest. “What is going on? Are you alright?”

The shine in his eyes….it was not from excitement or happiness or even the drugs he sometimes dabbled in taking, but from tears, she realized, seeing them trickle from the corners of his eyes and into his beard. He reached for her, grasping her fingers in his hands, squeezing hard. His voice crackled. “I found it. The way…to have a babe. What we always wanted.”

Her heart dared not beat, it dared not even rise into her throat. Sometimes it seemed like there would be something. A dark magick, a curse, or something else, and it would never be something possible. It seemed her Valyrian ancestors never cared about finding ways to create babes from dusty wombs and dead seed. She would not allow her hopes to rise. It was pointless. “I wish I shared your sentiment,” she murmured.

“I just need…” He reached for Longclaw, slicing his palm and dropping his blood. The bowl smoked. He swirled it several times, muttering old Valyrian, and carried it to the fire, setting it in the flames. She held her hand out when he asked for it and sliced her palm, taking her blood. Powerful blood. Blood of a king and blood of a queen. Blood of ancient Valyrians and First Men. 

While she slept her grief away, laying abed with her pain, he turned manic, like he did now. She allowed him to behave like this—they all had their coping mechanisms. She dressed and took Ghost, disappearing in the Wolfswood and reappearing in Dorne, both of them wandering in old shops and sitting on the beach and dining in an outdoor restaurant as the sun set. She thought about maybe going to Braavos but decided against it. She reappeared that evening at the Nightfort. 

The yearning desire for a child would never go away, no matter how long they lived. She could travel to all the cities in the world, sometimes even volunteer at hospitals or schools or speak with a wayward little soul in shops or restaurants or just on the street, but it would never be the same. She wandered to their rooms and found him sitting in the chair in front of the fire, exhausted and staring straight ahead, a hand on his stomach and his eyes half-closed, a mug of ale dangling in his fingertips. 

“What are you doing?” she sighed, going to help him. 

He opened his eyes, loopy smile pulling on his lips, waving his hand. “I think I did it,” he whispered. He drew her into his lap, curving her silver hair behind her ear, stroking at her neck. He nuzzled her nose. “Dany, I believe I know the answer, but if you could live forever, ruling as my queen, or if we could become parents and die a mortal death, old in our beds and gray-haired and all that that entails, which would you choose?”

The sob she released into his mouth as she kissed him was the answer he needed; of course he knew. “I want what they took from us,” she cried. “But they took it with them to their deaths, we can’t Jon, you know we can’t!”

“But we _can_.” He laughed, pulling her face to his again, whispering. “I found the answer. I found it, in Stygai…the city of the dead. We were there. Only we’re here too.” 

She shook her head, chuckling, rocking her hips against his, feeling him grow hard against her. She reached between them, unbuckling his belt and freeing him, her hand pumping firmly and her mouth swallowing his groans as she rubbed him against her, her cunt already damp. One of his hands moved from her face and pushed between them, curving into her and stroking her expertly, pulling more want from her, until she was slick and needy—so needy—before she sank onto him, sobbing out as he filled her. She slipped and slithered on him, thrusting erratically, wanting him as deep as he could go, his hands gripping at her hips, tugging her harder and harder as they sped up, their lips sloppy against each other as they attempted to draw everything from the other. “It can’t happen,” she sobbed to him, pressure building in the pit of her stomach. She held his shoulders tight in her hands and he rubbed furiously between them on her clit, her cries echoing in the room. “Jon it can’t, we can’t…”

“Yes,” he hissed. His eyes flashed; this time she thought they were red. Something was happening, she thought, the fires consuming them. It was like they were somewhere else, maybe in Volantis, maybe in her chambers on Dragonstone, or the waterfall. Everything flashed around her and then it was like they were in that cramped stateroom on the ship, where he’d come to her, unsure and awkward, and she had let him in, knowing that once the door shut there was no turning back. 

The scream tore through her, eyes rolling in the back of her head, and he cried out, hoarse against her chest. She clamped her thighs around his hips, her walls tightening on him, locking him into her, and she savored the heat that filled her as he pumped into her, releasing all that he had. She closed her eyes and sighed, falling against his chest, spent. He lifted her, keeping his cock tight inside her channel, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, smiling when he rested her back into the pillows. 

They made love so many times she couldn’t count. She thought the ground shifted beneath their feet. Whether it was because of whatever spell he thought he’d uncovered or the realization that maybe she _didn’t_ need a baby because she had _him_. She always thought that though, when the end of these depressive episodes came. She realized she was happy with him, with their castle, and their lives. 

He kissed the top of her head. “I’ll be right back.” 

She mumbled into his shoulder, not wanting him to leave, but he climbed from the bed, padding naked out of the room. She waited a moment, but he hadn’t returned, so she climbed out after him and pulled on her robe, finding him in the kitchens, kneeling before the weirwood tree, hands on his thighs, and eyes closed, mouth moving silently as he prayed. 

They were creatures of the night, they were violent and angry, and they answered to gods nor men, but she knew he still believed in his Old Gods, still hoped one day they would answer his calls. She waited for him to finish, before she approached him, and removed her robe, pushing him onto his back and climbing atop him, riding him beneath the moon and under the watchful gaze of the Old Gods. 

Days passed and then weeks, and during that time, she lived as she always had. Well, as she had for the last few thousand years. They spoke nothing of it again, of his desperate attempts to convince her he had finally found a way, even as she allowed him to believe. It was better than the alternative. When he found he could not help her, he fell into a depression almost as dark as hers, except while she refused to leave her bed and cried herself to sleep mourning for the child she could never birth, he took his anger out on the world.

What amounted to normal for her continued. She slept most of the day, arising at night, and read her books, she studied his work, and of course they had each other whenever they could. She took Drogon out from time to time. It happened a few months after that night, when he’d returned. She was in the village with Ghost, enjoying herself as a few children jumped around one of the monuments of the Stark wolves. Her fingers flicked occasionally, sparks dancing at the feet of the children, their laughs and sheer glee filling her heart. 

She also enjoyed sending bits of flame in the direction of nosy crones, women who resembled Sansa Stark, and the occasional lecherous male. Ghost tolerated the random strangers who ventured to pet him, finally side-eyeing her, requesting they leave. She obliged, standing and paused, frowning. She lightly touched her side. It felt as though… _but it cannot be._

They walked away, through the village, and she stopped to view her image in the glass of a shop. The cut of her figure… _but it cannot be._ She hurried away, Ghost chasing after her, and in red smoke they appeared, this time she blew through the smoke to his workroom, where he was bent over a massive book, glasses on his nose and hair tugged atop his head, muttering over what he was reading. It gave him great consternation, but she didn’t care, because she was torn between wanting to stab him with Longclaw or mounting him atop the table and riding him for the rest of the night. “It can’t be true!” she sobbed, flinging her arms out and sending him careening backwards, caught off guard by her arrival. 

She flung her arms out to the sides, fire spouting forth, sending a rope of it towards him but he dodged it, fingers curling in time to turn the fire into shards of ice, dropping to the stone where they shattered like glass. They fought like they fucked; like dragons. Tearing at each other, grunting and screaming, somehow finding their way through the massive castle to the base of the Wall, where she finally fell to her knees, crying as he embraced her, swaying from side to side, murmuring how it was true, that she needn’t be sad ever again. 

They kissed, shaky and nervous, her fingers stroking the tears from his face as he traced hers over her jaw and neck. “A babe,” she breathed, before their hands tangled over her belly, the slightest swell on her waist. She had never allowed herself to believe it possible, and here it was. She cried, needing him more than she ever had before. “How Jon? How did you do it?”

“Death must pay for life,” he whispered, kissing her gently. He stroked her face, the moon and stars shining over them, beacons of hope for her. He smiled against her lips. “And death is what we know, is it not? We are death, we are life, and we have been here forever, where no one has ever found us, but now, we can finally _live._ ”

 _My king_ , she thought, kissing him over and over, as he carried her to their rooms, stroking her belly, worshipping her and pledging to her that he would protect her for the rest of their lives, for however short they may be now. 

And months later she held her belly, cradling it lovingly, when the spasms took her. The labor was intense, as she had imagined it would be with his child, and at the height of the moon, in the darkest of the night, she birthed her son first, with a cap of hair as silver as hers, followed shortly by her daughter, curls as inky black as her father’s licking at her scalp. They slipped from her body into the arms of the man who helped give them life, who wrapped them in linen and rested them on her chest, both of them crying and swearing they would never love another more. 

The babes were strong and healthy, her sweet little dragonwolves, her precious miracles, and she hardly noticed when one day she had something that looked _white_ in her silver hair. Or the wrinkles that began to spider from the corners of her eyes. Or the gray that began to streak through his black hair. _We are aging_ , she realized, as their children did too. 

_Death must pay for life._

They took the children to one of the festivals, allowed them to argue over which dragon animal they could have or wolf toy—despite the fact they had a real one of each at home—when she listened to one of the readings of the folktales. 

“And the Night’s King and the Night’s Queen ruled over their domain for the rest of time,” the storyteller finished. 

“Forever?” a young girl asked.

The storyteller nodded. “Forever. Some say they still haunt the wood; they take wayward travelers into their armies, they practice dark magick. The Night’s Queen flies her dragon and lays siege to those that she believe still wronged her.”

She called out, smiling around her words. “Is it possible the Night’s King and the Night’s Queen have simply faded into peaceful death together? Was that not all they wanted after all that time?”

“Maybe, but that does not warrant a good ending to a story,” the teller laughed. He picked up another book, lifting it up and dragging his finger over the gilded title. “And now, we turn to the story of the old Kings of Winter and their ultimate end at the kneeling to Aegon the Conqueror.”

 _Not a good ending?_ She huffed, turning away and returning to her family, scowling as he smoked a cigarette while the children ran about the playground, climbing and falling over a slide and wooden obstacles. “Have we gotten soft?” she wondered, leaning against him. She chided him, taking the cigarette from his lips. “Not around the babes!”

“Bad habit.”

They moved to sit on a bench, as the children laughed and pretended to be dragons, jumping and running. Her daughter went headfirst down the slide, fashioned as though it was a giant tongue sticking out of a wolf’s jaw. She waved when her son tumbled up to his feet, dark curls wild about his rosy cheeks, shouting for her. “I see you _issa byka zokla!_ ”

He continued to smoke his cigarette, the silver ring he wore on his left hand—in deference to newfound traditions of showing your marriage via a ring—glinting in the sun. She reached to take his other hand, draping it around to rest over her shoulder, as she leaned on him. He nuzzled her temple, murmuring. “What do you mean gotten soft?”

It should not have bothered her, she wasn’t sure if it was _bother_ so much as just _irk_. “The storytellers say the Night’s King and Night’s Queen still roam the lands, taking travelers and killing those who wrong them. I offered the suggestion that perhaps they have simply faded to peaceful existience and the man said it was _not a good ending._ ” She wrinkled her nose, scowling. “Perhaps we have become sfot? When was the last time we killed anyone?”

He waved his hand, with the last remains of his cigarette between his fingers, the smoke clouding over slightly around them. It muffled their voices to anyone who happened to be listening. “Might want to be careful love, talking about murdering people while on a playground.” He was amused, eyebrow lifting, and lip quirking. He chuckled, his white teeth flashing against the dark of his beard. “Would you like me to go murder someone? Hmm? There was a woman flirting with me at the pub, would not stop. I can point her out to you.”

“I may take you up on that.” 

He kissed her temple. “We are happy, Daenerys. Fuck the lot of them if they don’t think the Night’s King and Queen get their happy ending.” 

“Happy endings aren’t for the likes of us,” she mumbled. They were too evil, too hard, and too angry. Except… _we aren’t anymore._ They had changed, they were different. They aged now. Even Ghost was slowing a bit and Drogon as well. One day they would all die, their children would live on after them. 

“You don’t believe that Dany.” He squeezed her hand, which remained tangled in his, before he moved to bring her closer to his side, stubbing the remains of the cigarette under his boot, leaning to pick it up and flick it several feet away into a rubbish bin. He moved to hold her tighter, his hand now covering her scar, under her left breast. She closed her eyes, his chest rumbling under her. “Fuck their ending. You and I know the truth. What we endured. What we did. This is our end. You and me…” Her eyes flicked open at the trailing of his voice, to stare to where he gazed, at their precious miracles, the little boy and girl who had become the only heartbeats in the world that mattered to her more than her love. He kissed behind her ear, murmuring. “And them.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Besides…” he sighed, falling back against the bench again. “I’m tired of killing.” He reached into the breast pocket of his black button-down, rummaging for another cigarette, flicking it absently—already lit now—between his lips. “Unless of course…” He blew a smoke ring into the air, smiling dangerously and darkly down at her. “Someone were to threaten mine own.”

Of that, they were in agreement. She patted his knee, lowering her legs from the bench, feet hitting the ground softly. “Come, let’s go home.”

“The usual way or the other way?”

“The other way,” she laughed, waving her hand to unmuffle their conversation. He groaned; he hated _the other way._ “Come!” she called, clapping hands and leaning to swing her daughter up into her arms, while her son ran towards his father. “Let’s go home. Shall we pretend to be old-fashioned and cook in the fire and sleep on bedrolls in the yard?”

“Oh yes!” little Alysanne exclaimed. 

Aemon giggled, nodding hard. “Yes, yes please!”

They carried them off to the carpark, where she laughed as the great Night’s King grumbled about having to drive, fumbling slightly with the gearshift. She gazed out the window, watching the town fade away as they drove towards the castle. She hummed to herself, cool air flowing through the open window, the sounds of her children’s laughs filling her heart. 

_This is all I ever wanted_ , she thought, gazing sideways at him, the way the sunlight cast half of his face in shadow, the dark curls whipping from the bun at the base of his neck. She lifted her fingers, pressing comfortingly at the base of his neck. He turned his head, eyes still on the road, kissing her wrist. She smiled, leaving her hand there, eyes closing, as she fell into a light sleep. 

And when she woke, she was ever so pleased to discover it was not a dream. It had never been a dream. It was her happy ending. _Even if it was boring and dull_ , she thought, grinning to herself as she ran after the children into the dark castle.

**fin.**


End file.
